After three blocks at a near run, Charlotte rounded the corner and slowed to catch her breath. She’d gone only a short distance when fingers clamped onto her arm. Her throat constricted. What she had hoped would be a shriek for help was instead a strangled mewl. A knot formed in the pit of her stomach, and she fought to wrestle free of the hold.
‘‘Let go of—’’ She jerked around and immediately relaxed. ‘‘Matthew! I thought it was—’’
‘‘With that look of terror in your eyes, I
hope
you didn’t think it was me. What’s wrong?’’ He peered behind her as though he expected to see someone menacing there.
She followed his focus, relieved to see nothing appeared out of the ordinary. ‘‘I don’t think we should be seen together.’’
‘‘Charlotte, what is this about? Your hands are shaking. Tell me what has happened.’’
‘‘Let’s keep walking. I don’t want to attract unnecessary attention.’’ She grasped his arm. A carriage slowed as it passed by, and Charlotte dipped her head.
When she looked up, Matthew was staring at her. ‘‘Are you going to explain, or must I resort to my news-reporting techniques and badger you?’’
She could overcome this problem if she and Matthew terminated all contact with each other. Mr. Rehnquist would then assume her involvement with Matthew had truly been to serve some surreptitious purpose for Mr. Field. There was no other way around this problem: she must tell Matthew what had occurred and hope that he would cooperate.
When she’d finished the tale, he shook his head. ‘‘I’ll not allow you to be bullied by the likes of anyone, especially that man.’’
‘‘Please, Matthew. I have a son to support, and my income is important to Priddle House, as well. If I’m going to maintain my position at the store, I believe it’s the only answer.’’
‘‘I’m not willing to give in so quickly. There may be some other way. I need time to think on this and develop a plan.’’ Matthew patted her hand. ‘‘For the time being, I’ll concede to stay away from the store. I won’t meet you after work or during your lunch break.’’ His look turned solemn. ‘‘You must promise to contact me if Mr. Rehnquist makes any further threats or advances.’’ He placed his index finger beneath her chin and lifted her head until their eyes met. ‘‘Do you promise?’’
Charlotte felt inexplicably breathless and backed away from him. Something deep within her stirred, and she realized Matthew Clayborn had taken her heart captive with his deep blue eyes, boyish charm, and unsolicited promises of protection. The silent admission caused a stir of fear and excitement to mount within her chest. She inhaled a ragged breath, thankful he couldn’t read her thoughts.
‘‘Charlotte?’’
Forcing herself from the self-induced fog, she became aware of the tiny creases that pinched between his eyebrows. She gave fleeting thought to pressing the pad of her thumb against the worry lines. ‘‘Yes.’’
‘‘Yes, you promise you’ll contact me if there’s any problem with Mr. Rehnquist?’’ Matthew bobbed his head as though coaching a young child for the sought-after response. She repeated the phrase for him, and he gave a final nod. ‘‘Good. Then the matter is settled.’’
At Mr. Heathcoate’s request, Fred boarded a train in Chicago on Thursday morning. The union membership had anxiously awaited the arrival of Wednesday, July 11, the agreed-upon date of the general strike. The day had come and gone, and so had their hopes for a nationwide walkout by the trade unions. There had been a smattering of support, but it was mostly from unions with their own grievances to settle.
Instead of first stopping in Pullman for a brief visit with Olivia, Fred followed Mr. Heathcoate’s instruction and went directly to Kensington, where the workers would gather to discuss this latest development. Fred had argued that Mr. Heath-coate should be the one to deliver the news, but Mr. Heathcoate had disagreed and countered that his presence was required in Chicago to attend meetings with other members of leadership.
The unrelenting sun beat down across Fred’s shoulders. He removed his hat and wiped the perspiration from his forehead. A group of men were sitting on the grass along the east side of the building, and Fred waved his hat in greeting.
‘‘Hope you’ve come to give us some good news for a change!’’ one of the men hollered.
Fred forced a half smile to mask the truth. Just once, he’d like to be the bearer of glad tidings. ‘‘Round up as many of the members as you can find, and let’s go inside.’’
A short time later he stood in front of a large group of men who represented most of the departments in their membership. ‘‘Mr. Heathcoate asked me to advise you that, from all reports, the national strike is considered a failure.’’ Before a reaction could erupt, Fred signaled for quiet. ‘‘Please remain calm. If there is shouting and mayhem, we’ll accomplish nothing. I will stay and answer your questions, but you must maintain order here and when you leave this meeting hall.’’
One of the men raised his hand, and Fred acknowledged him. ‘‘I thought the newspapers said Mr. Gompers met with Mr. Debs and they were in agreement about the trade unions and the AFL joining us in the strike.’’
Nods and a hum of agreement filled the room.
‘‘As president of the American Federation of Labor, Mr. Gompers came here at the request of the Chicago membership. He didn’t appear to be strongly aligned with the concept of a nationwide strike and didn’t think a walkout would be good for his trade union members.’’
Angry murmurs rose from the crowd, and Fred pounded the gavel on the podium numerous times before regaining control of the meeting. He understood the frustration. The men had expected a quick solution when they’d walked out in May, but with dwindling resources with which to provide for their families and little hope of resolution, their dissatisfaction and anger continued to mount. Now Fred had arrived and dashed their remaining hopes.
‘‘You’ve got to put yourself in his position. I’m not certain Mr. Debs would want to thrust the American Railway Union into a fray that had begun with the American Federation of Labor. You must think about whether
you
would be willing to walk out of
your
job in support of a trade union strike in New York or California.’’ He looked out over the crowd. ‘‘We had hoped these other unions would join us and support our cause, but we must be realistic. After all, we can’t ask them to do more than we would be willing to do ourselves. If the AFL calls a strike next year, will you be willing to walk out to support them?’’
‘‘We’re concerned about what’s happening in the here and now,’’ one of the men called, and several others murmured agreement.
A Paint Department representative stepped forward. ‘‘You haven’t been around much, Fred, so you may not know that the Relief Committee is in dire straits. We’re told they’re desperately low on supplies, and all other help has dwindled to nothing.’’
‘‘My wife tells me the committee has already announced there’s going to be another reduction in aid unless someone gives a generous donation,’’ another man shouted.
‘‘How much less can we get by on?’’
The men waited. Expectation shone in their eyes. They wanted answers, but Fred didn’t have any. ‘‘I can’t answer your questions. All I can tell you is that we must remain steadfast and continue to maintain the peace. Once we have word from Mr. Debs and the other leadership, either Thomas Heathcoate or I will report back to you.’’
He could have told them that the lack of support from the AFL was the final straw and their fate was sealed, but he withheld that disclosure. Instead, he mentioned the financial contributions made by the membership of the Chicago Knights of Labor and a few other trade unions. Money to assuage the guilt they harbored over failure to join the strike—at least that’s what Fred thought. Hardship won over pride, and the donation had been accepted, although it was a mere pittance compared to the daily needs of the Pullman citizens.
‘‘What about Mr. Pullman? Any word that he’ll reconsider and negotiate?’’
Once again, the company’s founder had fled the city while others were left to enforce his orders, but Fred knew such a comment would further inflame the men. ‘‘Management continues to refuse to meet with us, and we don’t expect that to change.’’
After answering several additional questions, Fred left the meeting with a list of grievances in his pocket—mostly regarding the lack of available aid, but a few men wanted Fred to convey their ongoing anger over the presence of armed troops. Beyond the pleas that had been made by Mr. Heathcoate, Mr. Debs, and the governor, Fred advised there was little more that could be done to remove the soldiers. But he had dutifully jotted down the message.
For days rumors had spread throughout Chicago that an invasion of more than ten thousand men was being organized to march into Pullman and set the factories ablaze. Each time the union attempted to dampen the fiery rumor, the tale was exaggerated with fresh gossip. Mr. Debs surmised that the troops would remain as long as rumors abounded, and he believed the rumors would continue until the General Managers Association put a stop to such talk. The leaders of the American Railway Union were convinced the association would use its resources to turn the country completely against the railway union. They had already blamed the railway union membership for horrendous acts of violence in the past. What better way to seal the fate of the striking workers than to spread rumors that their union members planned to set the town and factories afire? There was no foundation for such rumors, but it was excuse enough to keep the military in Pullman.
Pullman, Illinois
Ignoring the presence of the white military tents that dotted the lawn of Hotel Florence, Fred lengthened his stride and skirted the outer edge of the encampment. The tower clock chimed the hour. He would have at least two hours before he must return to Chicago. He hoped Chef René would be willing to release Olivia from her duties for the remainder of the morning. With the troops bivouacked on the front lawn, Fred doubted there were many guests at the hotel. Surely the chef could manage without Olivia for an hour or two.
The scent of roasting meat wafted through the hot air, and Fred’s stomach growled. He had considered stopping for breakfast before leaving Kensington but decided against the idea at the last minute. He hadn’t eaten since last night and hoped Olivia would offer him some leftovers from breakfast.
Above the rattle of pots and pans, Fred heard Chef René shouting orders to the kitchen staff. From the tone of his voice, the chef was unhappy. Moving close to the door, Fred strained to capture a glimpse of Olivia. Instead, Chef René spotted him.
With several heavy steps, the rotund man approached the door. ‘‘You are eavesdropping, or do you have business with me, Mr. DeVault?’’
Fred retreated as though he’d been singed by an open flame. ‘‘I’m in town for union business and hoped to visit with Olivia— if she’s not too busy, that is.’’
The chef slapped his palm across his forehead. ‘‘Not too busy?’’ His beefy hand remained on his forehead as he gazed heavenward. ‘‘Not too busy? Non, of course not, Mr. DeVault. I have only all these soldiers expecting one meal after another. How could we be too busy?’’
‘‘Why are you cooking for
them
?’’ Fred asked with a quick glance over his shoulder.
‘‘Because that is what I’ve been told to do, Mr. DeVault. Just like the soldiers out there in the yard, I follow orders. Miss Mott will join you when she has a few free moments. Who can know when that will be.’’ He pointed toward the tree where the staff gathered for their midmorning breaks. ‘‘Wait over there. It is one place the soldiers haven’t occupied.’’
Fred didn’t argue. He located a spot beneath the oak tree and dropped down onto the grass where he could watch the entrance. Moments later Olivia opened the door, flashed a smile, and quickly disappeared from sight. He would wait no longer than an hour. If she didn’t come outside by then, he would return to Chicago. He closed his eyes and leaned back against the sturdy tree trunk.
‘‘Fred.’’
He forced his eyes open. Olivia was standing over him, smiling. He pushed himself upright and pulled her into a warm embrace. ‘‘I was beginning to wonder if Chef René was going to hold you hostage the entire day.’’
She leaned away from him and shook her head. ‘‘You didn’t seem to be missing me overly much. In fact, you appeared to be asleep.’’
He laughed and held her close, enjoying the scent of her hair. ‘‘I’ve missed you.’’
‘‘I’ve missed you, also. I was beginning to wonder if you were ever going to return.’’
He caught the hint of accusation in her voice. ‘‘When I haven’t been attending to union duties, I’ve been doing my best to keep Bill’s business running smoothly or visiting him at the hospital.’’
At the mention of Bill and his family, Olivia’s features softened. ‘‘How is he progressing?’’
‘‘He should be released from the hospital next week, but his future is bleak.’’ Fred explained the extent of Bill’s injuries. ‘‘I don’t know what he’ll decide regarding the business, but Bill and his family will need our continued prayers.’’
Olivia nodded. ‘‘So much sadness surrounds us. Sometimes it’s difficult to believe God hears my prayers.’’
Fred understood, for he’d had those same feelings ever since the strike began. It seemed God had aligned with the men who embraced capitalistic greed rather than the poor man trying to eke out a living for his family. But he didn’t want his time with Olivia embroiled in a discussion of good versus evil or unanswered prayer. He wanted to forget the turmoil and concentrate on her.
She sat down beside him and withdrew something wrapped in a linen napkin from the pocket of her chef ’s jacket. ‘‘When Chef René told me you were here, I asked your mother to place one of the beef pasties in the oven with her pies. We’re serving them today for the noonday meal, although Chef René says they aren’t fancy enough.’’ She giggled. ‘‘He expects complaints.’’
‘‘Let’s hope the soldiers don’t eat them. The Pullman residents would consider them quite a treat.’’ He took a bite and nodded his approval. ‘‘Tell Chef René I doubt he’ll hear any grumbling once the soldiers have tasted them.’’ After devouring the beef pie, he wiped his hands and mouth on the napkin. ‘‘Does my mother continue to enjoy working with Chef René ?’’